


welcome to the family

by illumynare



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff and Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 22:19:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/692120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illumynare/pseuds/illumynare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Since he was now being honest with himself, Bilbo privately admitted he was a little disappointed. But really, what had he expected? A letter, like a hobbit's bread-and-butter note? <i>Dear Bilbo, How delightful it was to charge through fire at an unkillable orc, and how clever of you to do it armed with nothing but an Elvish paper-knife. I only hope you enjoyed yourself half as much as I did. Let's do it again soon. Sincerely, Thorin Oakenshield.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	welcome to the family

No matter how much Bilbo had wanted Thorin's approval (and now that he had it, he could admit that he had wanted it very badly indeed), he hadn't given much thought to how it might change things.

At first it didn't, much. Thorin had stopped glaring at him, which was a relief. He didn't make any remarks about how Master Baggins should have stayed at home. When they stopped for the night to make camp, Bilbo noticed that Thorin now glanced at him while silently checking on the members of the Company.

And . . . that was all.

Since he was now being honest with himself, Bilbo privately admitted he was a little disappointed. But really, what had he expected? A letter, like a hobbit's bread-and-butter note? _Dear Bilbo, How delightful it was to charge through fire at an unkillable orc, and how clever of you to do it armed with nothing but an Elvish paper-knife. I only hope you enjoyed yourself half as much as I did. Let's do it again soon. Sincerely, Thorin Oakenshield._ Or a cross-stitch of a burning tree surrounded by wargs, with "IN MEMORY OF OUR FRIENDSHIP" underneath?

He wasn't even sure that Thorin's new respect for him could really be termed friendship. But then, he didn't think that any of the other dwarves could be called Thorin's friends either. Maybe Dwalin or Balin, but even there--Bilbo knew he had been a rather solitary hobbit, who didn't really understand what it was like to have close friends, but he was pretty sure that even the dearest of friends didn't issue orders quite so imperiously as Thorin did, or speak about each other with the same passionate adoration that Balin did, or slaughter anyone that looked at their friend sideways, as Dwalin was apparently _always ready to do._

Then, two nights after they left Beorn's house, Bilbo was sitting in front of the campfire and just getting ready to pull out his pipe when Thorin abruptly sat down behind him.

"Hello," said Bilbo, rather dubiously.

Instead of saying something normal such as, _Hello, Bilbo, it's a nice evening, don't you think?_ \--which, granted, coming from Thorin Oakenshield would be positively abnormal--Thorin stuck his fingers into Bilbo's hair.

Bilbo flinched violently.

"Hold still," Thorin commanded, and since Bilbo had a policy of "always obey heavily-armed dwarves," he tried. 

The problem was that Bilbo was ticklish. Very, very ticklish. And Thorin had started delicately picking through the curls at his hairline, sending a wave of hideous shudders all the way down Bilbo's spine. No matter how he tried, Bilbo couldn't stop his shoulders from hunching up towards his ears. He thought wildly that if Thorin was worried the Company's burglar had gotten lice, there were easier ways to check for it.

"He's doing it!"  said Kili, in tones of awe. "He's actually doing it!"

Instantly twelve pairs of eyes were fixed on them. Ori laid down his knitting; Bombur's soup sat unattended. Even Dwalin stopped sharpening his axe to stare at them.

Whatever Thorin was doing to his hair, it was clearly important. Bilbo tried chanting to himself, _I am a Took! I will be strong!_ but some things just couldn't be fought. After a few more agonizing moments, he convulsed out of Thorin's grip with a great bleat of laughter, to lie twitching and snickering on the ground.

When he finally regained control, he realized that even though he had just made a fool of himself, nobody was laughing. He looked up and saw twelve dwarves staring at him with awe, horror, wrath (that was Dwalin), and sheer terror (that was Ori).

Then he looked over his shoulder and saw Thorin looking down at him with a gaze that seemed to say, _I would like chop you into pieces and scatter them all the way to the Lonely Mountain._

"Do you think this is a joke?" he demanded.

"No," said Bilbo, and then remembered that the situation was all Thorin's fault. He sat up. "Or maybe it is, in which case it's in very poor taste. But if it's not, well--well, I can assure you I have never had lice a day in my life! And if you're really worried about the hygiene of this Company-- _not_ that I'm the one most likely to be carrying nits--I would rather shave my head than submit to being pawed at without so much as a by-your-leave!"

At this point he ran out of breath and also remembered that Thorin was going to chop him into tiny, tiny pieces. Even Gandalf wouldn't be able to find them all.

Except, amazingly, Thorin didn't pull out Orcrist and start cleaving. He just kept looking at him with the same stony expression, which Bilbo suddenly suspected meant he was embarrassed.

"Laddie," said Balin gently, "he was braiding your hair."

"Oh," said Bilbo, feeling rather embarrassed himself. Polite hobbits did not mention lice unless someone else did first, which made for rather elliptical conversations sometimes. "That's--that's good." He clutched at the remains of his outrage. "But he still might have asked first. It's rather familiar, don't you know." 

"Bless me!" said Bofur, slapping his thigh. "'Rather familiar'? Next thing you'll be saying you don't even know what a simple braid means."

"Er," said Bilbo. "Well, no, not as such. In a dwarvish context, that is."

There was a short, resounding silence as thirteen dwarves looked at one another and suddenly remembered that their burglar had not, in fact, been raised by dwarves. 

It was Thorin who took responsibility and spoke first. "A dwarf's hair is his pride," he announced. "We braid our hair in memory of our kin."

"That does explain the beards," said Bilbo. "But--"

"We only braid the hair of others," Thorin went on, with a look that seemed to drill right through him, "if we consider them our kin."

Bilbo opened his mouth. Closed it. Blinked. No matter how many times he repeated Thorin's words in his head, they did not suddenly turn into _consider them less useless than we did at the start of our journey,_ which was all he would have expected five minutes ago.

Kili grinned and punched him in the shoulder. "I'm not the youngest any more!"

"Congratulations?" Bilbo said faintly, thinking that the contract really should have mentioned _adopted by dwarves_ among the possible dangers of the venture.

Then he realized that Thorin was still looking at him, except now--and perhaps it was just his silly Tookish imagination--he thought that gaze concealed the tiniest trace of hurt. 

For one moment he imagined the gossip in Bywater if he came home with his hair in braids to his waist. And it occurred to him that even if he refused, Thorin might not kill him (at least, not until they had taken care of the dragon). But none of that mattered. He'd already made his choice, and it had nothing to do with how much he was afraid of the neighbors or Thorin.

It was exactly the same choice he had made a week ago, amid fire and orcish laughter and the howling of wargs.

When he clambered off the tree to chase Thorin into certain death, Bilbo hadn't been thinking, _These dwarves are my family._ He hadn't been thinking anything, really, except for terrified gibbering. But he had _known_ , with a strength beyond any terror, that he could not bear to lose any one of them.

He hadn't dared to think that maybe they couldn't bear to lose him either.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "Thank you. I have never been so honored in all my life."

"Then why did you laugh in his face?" Dwalin demanded.

"I'm sorry!" said Bilbo contritely, wishing he could go just five minutes without embarrassing himself. "It's just, I'm terribly ticklish."

"You have ticks?" Bofur stage-whispered.

"No!" Bilbo yelped. "How could you think-- I said, I'm _ticklish_. Especially about the head and neck. Having my hair braided tickles. I didn't mean to laugh, I just can't help it. Because it tickles so much." He stared at the dwarves. They stared back at him. "Do you honestly not know what the word 'ticklish' means?"

"Is it one of those diseases you get if you don't have a beard?" Kili asked.

Fili elbowed him. "Then you'll be infected next."

"Tickling is, well--" Bilbo suddenly realized that he was likely to face weeks of torture once they figured it out, but he couldn't let them go on thinking that he had laughed at Thorin's gesture. "Hobbits have sensitive skin, you know. Tickling is when something brushes against you just barely. Feels like ants on your skin, only a hundred times worse. And you have to laugh. You can't help it, I promise."

"I suppose it makes sense," said Balin after a minute. "Hobbits are very soft creatures. Of course they would have more delicate senses."

Thorin nodded decisively. "It's not your fault."

"Thank you," Bilbo said fervently. "I'm really sorry. Maybe you can do some other--"

"Fili, Kili, hold him down."

Bilbo barely had time to yelp before they shoved him to the ground and sat on top of him.

"Cheer up, little brother," said Kili. "It won't take long."

"I don't--" Bilbo started. Then he felt Thorin's fingers poke at his hair, and he started snickering.

Five minutes later, when they let him sit up again, Bilbo knew he had lost any dignity he had formerly possessed. But when he poked at his head, he felt two neat little braids running along his scalp from hairline to the nape of his neck, where they ended in two little tails tipped in beads. And they were a thousand times better than any cross-stitch or letter.

Even in the wilderness, he was home.


End file.
